


Tomorrow

by trulyunruly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death Fix, Children, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fill, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rebuilding, Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulyunruly/pseuds/trulyunruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was the night to end all days, or so the smallfolk would say. Many names would follow it throughout history: the Night of Always Winter, the Second Dance of Dragons, the Song of Ice and Fire. Some called it the End and, for others, it was. What was left in the smouldering aftermath was ravaged and barely alive. <i>But it was alive.</i>"</p><p>AU in which the Starks emerge from the war alive - but not unscathed. Now they must attempt to rebuild what is left of their pack as the snows fall and the winds of winter blow. <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/18573.html?thread=12693389#t12693389">Written for this asoiafkinkmeme prompt.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lords of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i ought to explain myself a little. i am a huge house stark fan and, while of course i would never argue TOO MUCH with canon, i am a sucker for any fix-it/downright ignoring of canon. ha. ha. er. so this prompt caught my eye a while back and i sort of started it half-heartedly, not really intending to post it anywhere. then i started getting serious about it. it is an interesting angle to explore and gives me the chance to offer my own interpretation of post-war westeros. so, yes, i went with the angsty fix-it story, though i have not ruled out a happy ending. in fact, i actively encourage those. this will contain **discussions and mentions of rape and torture** , though nothing too explicit, so do beware. i hope i do the prompt, these characters and these subjects justice. tags will be updated as i add to this story. to op, if you see this: i hope this is kind of what you had in mind? and i hope you enjoy :)

_It was the night to end all days, or so the smallfolk would say. Many names would follow it throughout history: the Night of Always Winter, the Second Dance of Dragons, the Song of Ice and Fire. Some called it the End and, for others, it was. Under suffocating blackness, the Wall crumbled. In the burning of the north, White Walkers and dragons alike perished. The last of the Targaryens fell through salt and smoke, and a great dynasty at last rumbled to a close._

_What was left in the smouldering aftermath was ravaged and barely alive._

_But it was alive._

* * *

 

Winterfell’s roofs emerged over the hilltops like distant crows against a cold morning sky. At the head of the pack, Lady Brienne’s horse threw its head up and snorted silvery mist, as if the end of their journey was a taste in the air. Its rider remained impassive but Ned could see the set of her broad shoulders and could imagine well enough her relief. It had been a long and arduous trek from King’s Landing. Many days had it been since they had not had to pick their way through slush and charred trees, and find their sleep under a blanket of unforgiving night.

‘The Unending Night’, Ned recalled one of his companions whispering, but the same fear did not slither into his own heart. Nor now did the sight of Winterfell stoke the same warmth in his breast.

“We are almost there now,” Lady Brienne called over her shoulder. Ned merely hunched over his own mount and said nothing. He could feel the sword belted to his side—not Ice, the heart of which rode now alongside the Lady Brienne—shift with every stride his horse took. There would be men milling about the courtyard of Winterfell, he knew; men who had once been Bolton men, Ironborn, men who had worked to overthrow his house and slaughter his family. It had been long since he wielded a sword, yes, but it was not finesse he would aim for should they attack. It was difficult to stop himself from reaching for the handle.

Ahead, the gates of the stronghold ground opened, pulled in shuddering jolts by guards in grey and black. They were far away yet, but Ned could hear the shouts within the castle walls even from here, low and echoing though they were. Some of Ned’s companions chuckled; even the horses felt the change, nickering and tossing their manes and some breaking into trots. Before long, the shouts took shape, gaining strength and volume in their excitement: “Eddard Stark approaches! Lord Stark is returned!”

_“Lord Stark,” murmurs the voice. He cannot see, but the words drip like honey into the blackness and he thinks of a smirking mouth, wicked and flashing sharp teeth. “Let us see how noble you are.”_

“Welcome home, Lord Stark.”

* * *

 

There was something different today. Rickon knew this even before he opened his eyes that morning. There was something _new_.

He was not in his room, for one thing. He had gone to sleep last night curled up under his bed with Shaggydog. Osha had never tried to make him sleep on a proper mattress and Rickon had bitten the maester when he tried to tell him off. So under the bed Rickon slept.

But he did not always wake up in the same place. Sometimes, Osha was with him, like on Skagos, when they would move in the night to keep away from the hungry men. Sometimes, he was on his own, or with Shaggy. Those times, it was because of his dreams.

Today, he woke up in the crypts. Rickon knew they were the crypts because he remembered Bran calling them that a long time ago, when they dreamed of Father. He had dreamt of Father again, Rickon realized. He was not tall and sad as he had been last time though. He was pale, white as milk, and he was pressed in a far corner, growling like a wolf. He was frightened, Rickon thought, frightened and angry.

It had been ages since Rickon had dreamt of his parents. The last time had been before Ser Davos fetched them on Skagos, before he and Bran had to hide away, before the men came to kill them. It had been a long time since Rickon felt this ugly tight feeling in his chest. When he sat up, he could not quite hold in a whimpering noise and Shaggydog was there in a moment, wet nose pushing against his cheek.

 _Only babies cry_ , Rickon thought, shoving Shaggydog away, _and I’m not a baby._

When he climbed out of the crypt, it occurred to Rickon that nobody had come searching, not even Osha. Around him, servants and guards were dashing about, speaking in hushed and frantic tones, mostly running towards the Great Keep and the courtyard. They barely noticed him or the huge black wolf at his side. Maybe they had grown used to them now. Rickon curled his fingers into the fur of Shaggydog’s neck.

“Let’s go outside, Shaggydog,” he said, “We’ll see what’s happening outside.”

The wolf dipped his head and then surged past, forcing Rickon to keep up at an almost-run. But Shaggydog did not lead him to the godswood, like Rickon thought he might. He followed everyone else, past the Armory and under the bridge. There had been a commotion. The gate was swung wide open but Rickon could barely see through it for all the horses filling up the courtyard. Their fidgeting legs and whinnying made Shaggydog snarl; he was thinking about running, about catching, about hunting. Rickon tightened his hold on him. These were not horses for eating. They wore saddles and some still bore riders.

In particular, a bay horse in the middle of all the uproar shifted anxiously under his rider and that was when the tightness in Rickon’s belly swooped down into something warm that made his legs wobble. He _knew_ the man on the bay horse’s back. He knewhim, as he knew Winterfell was his home and Shaggy his wolf. He knew him, as he knew about life and death.

“A hand, Lord Stark?” one of the bustling bannermen on the ground asked, approaching the bay. The rider lowered his hood, a fur-lined, heavy thing, and Rickon saw his face. It was lined and haggard, framed by hair more white than brown, but his eyes were grey and frightened and Rickon recognized them.

Beside him, Shaggydog gave a low growl. Rickon seized a fistful of his fur and hauled it towards him, pulling Shaggydog around. They were running back to the Keep before he could even hear his father speak.

* * *

 

Ned does not sleep for the first three days in Winterfell. It no longer feels like Winterfell anymore, not the stronghold that had been his House’s for centuries, the home he was born and raised and taught in. While the castle is kept warm, the rebuilt walls and newly-carved furniture were sturdy and solid, the pillows soft, the curtains flung wide to let faint sunlight and moonlit glow inside, Ned finds no joy in it. Both lying in bed and walking about the Keep pains his leg; the chairs were too short or too hard, the tables still rough, the rooms _not Winterfell’s_. In the lonely darkness of night, he thinks to himself that it is a stranger’s castle now; that he now belongs in only the deepest, coldest places now.

_“Can you see, my Lord?” he is asked but the words are a dull roar in his ears and he cannot understand, “We might bring in a torch to light our way—would you like that?”_

_No, he thinks, but he can only cry out, a harsh snarl into the unfathomable dark. Here, he knows only pain, only life; he is but an animal, voiceless and helpless and he cannot understand, cannot, cannot—_

_A firefly flits above him, a flicker of gold, and he flinches back. The flame flutters as the torch is raised, high above his head, and he sees a flash of pale eyes, a gleam of a sharp grin, a hunter with its prey in his trap._

_“That’s better, Lord Stark.”_

On the fourth night, Ned’s eyes begin to droop. He feels heavy, pleasantly so, and fancies that to lean into the pillow and drift away would not be so bad. Long has it been, after all, since he had a bed; since he did not have to slumber on frozen ground or in suffocating darkness. For a split second, it is easy to forget all but the bed and the slow slide of his eyelids shut.

Somewhere, far away and far too close, there is a grinding noise. Ned jerks upright. Even in the midnight gloom, he can see that his door has been pushed open. His heart stutters. His pumping blood feels cold in his veins.

He can shout out. Lady Brienne is in the small room only down the hallway. She would run to his aid, of that Ned is as certain as he is of the fact that he will not call to her. _Let my guard sleep_ , he decides, gingerly sitting up straighter on his elbows, _The night can hold no more terrors for me_.

“Who goes there?” he asks in a low voice, raspy in its hush, “Who has come into Lord Stark’s chambers?”

The shadows are still on the walls, an audience to this strange drama Ned finds himself acting out. A reply is slow and hesitant to come, but it is not the darkness that answers him.

“They call _me_ Lord Stark too.”

Ned’s heart beats all the faster, a hammer against the anvil of his ribs. When he next speaks, however, he keeps his tone as level as he can. “Last I saw you, you were simply Rickon.”

Another pause ensues. The door creaks open a little further and a black shape, hulking yet graceful, slips into the room. Ned does not even think to yell, for he spies the yellow glint of Shaggydog’s eyes as he pads near the bed and settles down onto his belly on the floor. The direwolf is quiet tonight, mirroring the solemn air of Rickon as he too shuffles into the room.

“Osha says you’re my father,” Rickon declares. He stands in the middle of the room in only nightclothes; Ned can see the jut of his shoulders under his shirt, the cuffs of too-long sleeves being twisted in his nervous little hands. This is the first time Ned has seen one of his children in more than three years. Last he saw Rickon, he had been but a babe, barely walking with confidence, barely babbling more than a handful of words, curly-haired and eager to join in with his brothers’ games. Now the same child regards Ned grimly. He is taller and gaunter, looking more like a Stark than Ned ever thought he would. Ned’s throat tightens. _Young, yes, but not quite a child anymore_ , he thinks.

“I named you,” he says at length, “held you when you were newly born. You are of my blood. I would call you my son if you would allow me.”

Rickon’s lips twist but he does not answer. He does move a little closer to the bed. “Shaggy doesn’t mind you. He minds most people.”

“He looks after you. He is a mighty creature,” Ned replies. Below the edge of the bed, there is an approving snuffle. Rickon softens.

“I remember you a little,” he says, words gentle in the black space between them, “I dreamed about you a few times. I think I missed you very much when you went away. Mother too. She had red hair. I remember that. I remember that I didn’t want anyone to cut my hair without Mother. Will she come back too?”

Ned wants to tell him _yes_. He wants to reach out, to haul Rickon into his embrace as he might have done when his children were young, when it was still summer. He wants to weep, to break apart for a fraction of a moment under the weight of his grief and his shame. When Rickon lifts his gaze to his, Ned cannot help but look away.

“She will come soon,” he tells him flatly, “as will your brother Robb. I cannot say when.”

Out of the corner, he sees Rickon give a measured nod, as if he were older than his years, and clenches his fists in the covers of his bed. _You do not deserve your child, Eddard Stark_.

“Can I stay here?” Rickon blurts. The words trip clumsily out of his mouth and he looks abashed to have asked. “Only for tonight. Shaggy led me up here. He doesn’t like our rooms and he doesn’t like the crypts.”

“You’ve slept in the crypts?” Ned asks hoarsely. Rickon shrugs, uncaring for Ned’s concern, and any flare of horror seeps out of Ned quickly. He is abruptly exhausted, and the boy is safe and warm in his chamber now, and there is nothing else Ned can give him now. _Tomorrow_ , Ned thinks as Rickon coaxes Shaggydog onto the rug before the fireplace and curls up beside him, _perhaps tomorrow I will be stronger_.

It is something he has said to himself many times before, and many times before he had known himself for a liar. This is the fourth night that Ned goes without sleep, for he sits awake for hours simply watching his son rest, as though to look away would reveal him to be simply a mirage. Rickon comes again the next night, this time settling immediately upon the rug with his wolf, and Ned begins to believe that, this time, he might close his eyes and awaken to find that he has told the truth.


	2. The Storms of Riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good news finally comes to the regained Tully stronghold of Riverrun. This may change everything in the fragile balance of Catelyn and Robb Stark's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugghhh, i can't believe how long it's been! time really did slip away from me and i am very ashamed. but here's the next chapter! this follows robb and catelyn and their position at the beginning of this tale, right after the end of the last war. i promise more info will be revealed not only about what the starks have been through, but also about how westeros is doing in later chapters. but first i just want to get through the exposition and have all the starks back in winterfell :) anyways, thank you if you're reading and i hope you like! x

The sun glows white behind a blanket of thick cloud; it is the first dry day that Robb has seen and he teeters uncertainly at the window. For weeks, storms have buffeted Riverrun, pounding on its barred wooden gates with fists of wind and churning the black waters of the rivers until their banks sloughed off in thick waves of mud. The chambermaid murmurs that it is a good omen, a sign of better to come. She dutifully straightens the covers of Robb’s bed and, when she turns to him, she smiles. It is rare to see such pleasure on anyone’s face in these days and Robb tries his best to return it.

“Lord Tully asks if you will join them in breaking their fast, my lord,” she tells him, “It will be held on the balcony this morning. Lord Tully wishes to take advantage of the fairer weather.”

Robb glances out the window again, at the grey skies and the dim shadows cast over the distant lands. _Fairer weather_ , he thinks, _perhaps this must be it now that winter has truly come_.

“Will my mother be in attendance?” Robb asks. There is a moment’s pause. He can hear the hitch in the maid’s breath as she hesitates.

“Lady Catelyn has declined the offer,” the maid says at length, lamely, for she already knows it was the answer Robb expected, “Would you prefer to join her in her chambers?”

“If my mother permits it.”

The maid nods, curtsies and leaves the room on silent feet. Robb does not follow her but waits by the window, looking out on the fields by the river, which he fancies will be all the greener for the rain. Why Lord Edmure continues to offer him a seat at his table at every meal, when he knows Robb will decline, Robb does not know—but he imagines it is hope that guides his uncle, hope that he clings to even when others have surrendered it.

Despite it, Robb had kept to his quarters since he arrived at Riverrun. The sight of the castle’s pale walls, even cut against rainclouds, had lightened Robb’s heart even more than departing the Twins had; and he was reluctant to leave the soft, familiar rooms he had first been guided on that day, save when he visited his mother. He likes staying here, he likes the routine he has established, and he likes that only he can decide whether to keep to or break that routine.

Gradually, Robb becomes aware of footsteps beyond his rooms, growing louder and louder until they come to a deafening halt outside his door. It is not the three hesitant knocks of a maid— _rat-tat-tat_ —that follow them but heavy, demanding thuds of a closed fist against the wood. _Boom doom boom_.  
  
Edmure does not wait for permission to enter. The door clunks open and he strides in with a face like thunder, as bold and strong as a lord should be. Robb barely resists twitching his hand to his side where his sword once lay. He forces himself still, meets Edmure's burning blue gaze. This is not the first time Edmure has come to his chamber like this.  
  
“Damn it all, Robb,” Edmure says all in a bluster. He loses his bearing in that moment and Robb sees again his foolhardy uncle. “ _Damn_ it all. You won't join me even to break bread.”  
  
“I would stay with my mother,” Robb replies softly, as he always does. Edmure's jaw clenches.

“You both hide away up here,” he accuses, “You shy from the outside, from the people that seek to help you. This must end, Robb.”

Robb says nothing. There is nothing that has not already been said, nothing that is left to say. Edmure will try, though. He will repeat his words again and again like a good songbird until breath leaves him or Robb’s steel breaks.

Before him, Edmure softens. He takes half a step forward, hand fluttering out as if to grasp his nephew by the shoulder. As always, he falters and it drops back to his side empty.

“You will not consider it?” he asks, and hurries on when Robb does not reply, “Eiblynn has grown much these past weeks. She may soon take her very first steps. Would you not care even to see her again?”

“That is unfair, nuncle,” Robb retorts. In these fell days, family is all that counts, the only chink Robb might find in his armour. He remembers the one time he saw his little cousin, cradled in her proud father’s arms. She had been fast asleep, still small and wrinkled, and her wisps of hair had been bright red. It recalled to his mind seeing Sansa for the first time, seeing Arya and Bran after her, and Rickon last of all and clearest in his memories. The sweet rasping of sleeping breath, the soft warmth and the parent’s pride had all been the same. He remembers how happy his mother had been each time he met his newest brother or sister.

This child’s mother, he remembers, had hovered anxiously at Edmure’s shoulder, half watching her babe and half wary of him. Robb had seen her in little Eiblynn: her round face, her pretty features. It had left a sour taste in his mouth.

“I cannot leave my mother,” he says now, sternly, as though he had ever been a king, “and I cannot—simply—return. And I will not break bread with that woman. You _know_ this.”

Edmure’s gaze is grim now but he remains silent. On this point, he will always concede. Walder Frey died some moons ago but he yet haunts them all. Robb knows this better than anyone.

“Give the Lady Roslin my regards,” Robb says dryly, and makes to turn away. Now, however, Edmure lurches forward, fastens a hand around Robb’s elbow to stop him. For a moment, Robb’s vision goes black; then he jerks his arm back, spinning around and into a crouch instinctively. But Edmure is faster; he leaps back, hands splayed and raised as though in surrender. He stays quiet as Robb’s frantic heartbeat slows, as his fists unclench and he straightens up. He keeps his shoulders hunched and eyes Edmure as a cornered rabbit might eye a wolf.

“M-my apologies,” Edmure says, fumbling, “I-I meant only to—my apologies. I only meant to tell you—a raven came this morning.”

“A raven?” Robb stands up right now, although he presses nearer the wall than he did before. Every muscle felt tensed.

“Aye. From Winterfell.”

Robb went cold. _A raven from Winterfell…?_ “What news was there?”

Edmure wavers for a moment before meeting Robb’s eyes. There is no solemnity or graveness in him, Robb sees, only something bright as a flame.

“Word of your father, Robb. You father is returned to Winterfell.”

* * *

 

Catelyn’s head is _throbbing_.

That is what she first realizes. How she did not notice before, she is not sure. She is curled up on the window bench, pressed against the glass frame, staring out at a rainless sky. The glass is cool. When she breathes out, a cloud of fog clings to it for a moment. She is not sure how long she has been here, how long she has been sitting here.

She has not slept again.

The maids will not be pleased. They never are when they arrive in the morning to find Catelyn’s bed neat and undisturbed, even though they would never say so aloud. Catelyn sees it in the lines of their mouths, the curtness of their words. Her head gives another slow ache at the thought and Catelyn unfolds her arms, rubs her temple. A glass of water will do her wonders.

She hopes that it is Alfa who comes this morning. Alfa is the only handmaiden who will smile anyway, who will be more than happy to fetch water and help Catelyn dress before Robb comes to break their fast. Catelyn smiles at the thought. Her son has been so kind to her, even on days when Catelyn does not deserve it.

Alfa is also the maid who will bring Eiblynn to see her. The visits are not regular and Catelyn is never certain on what days they will occur—but sometimes Alfa will come through the doors with the girl in her arms and those are always the best mornings.

It had happened for the first time in the second week after Catelyn came back to Riverrun. She had dreamt of darkness again, of too cold and too hot and pain and sharp nails, and woken up with her throat burning like she had been screaming. For a heart-stopping second, she had thought herself back in the Dreadfort before a knock startled her upright and out of those thoughts she ought not to have thought. She had barely had time to gather her covers about herself before the maid had crept in, a candle in one hand to light the dark morning and the bundle of Catelyn’s niece in the crook of her other arm. Catelyn had held her tremulously that first morning, as though she would break.

Now Eiblynn is bigger and much more aware. She had already taken to grinning widely whenever she sees her—and it warms Catelyn in a way she has not felt in a long while. Every time she scoops the babe into her arms, she remembers her own—how small yet solid, how precious, how sweet each one had been to her, how much she loved them upon first sight. She had been holding Eiblynn when news came that Rickon had been found alive on Skagos, and she had clutched the child to her breast and sobbed with joy.

Her babes are not so little anymore, Catelyn muses. She could see that Robb, her firstborn, who was the last of her children she saw before the Dreadfort and the first she saw after, has lost the last traces of boyhood that had hung upon him on the battlefield. He was a man now—a lean, sad man now. Even Rickon would be nearing his seventh nameday—no longer little enough to be held, if he would even wish to be.

As for her daughters and her last son—Catelyn’s hand jolts up to her throat, fingers tracing her own pulse—she cannot bear to think. She _cannot_. Are they somewhere out there, growing bigger every day without her? Or are they— _no_. She could not stand it.

Her head is throbbing. Catelyn leans forward, pressing her forehead to her knees. She had not noticed the ache. She wanted to sleep. She could not sleep.

There is a knock at the door and Catelyn nearly shouts at them to go away. She does not, however, because perhaps it is Alfa with little Eiblynn or maybe Robb come early, although she would surely be ashamed to be found still undressed by her son, she does not want him to see her like that—

The door creaks open before Catelyn can unstick her tongue. It is not Robb. It is Roslin.

“Oh,” Catelyn says but Roslin does not acknowledge her, not until the door is quietly shut behind her and she has inched closer to her. Eiblynn is in her arms, asleep and slumped against her mother’s shoulder. Roslin’s face is pinched with uneasiness but she stands straight before Catelyn, earnest and determined.

Catelyn is not too surprised to see Roslin here—she is no fool and is sure that Roslin has likely been sending Eiblynn to her in the mornings, a strange peace offering but one none the less. Catelyn is long past the point of anger and certainly beyond trying to hate Roslin for the sins of her father. Good hearts, Catelyn knows, are not always easily found; she fancies that she has discovered one beneath Roslin’s sweet, shy face. Edmure may well have kept Roslin at his side because he did not wish to dishonor the woman he had wedded and bedded, but Catelyn is in little doubt that he will soon grow to love her. A flash of _something_ scorches through her—something painful, yearning—before Catelyn reminds herself not to think of it. By the gods, her head is throbbing.

“Lady Catelyn,” Roslin says in a hushed voice, mindful of her slumbering babe, “I hope you are well-rested.”

If she has noticed the made bed, she pointedly ignores it. Catelyn chuckles despite herself.

“I did not expect you, Lady Roslin,” she replies, whispering in kind, “I might have made myself presentable.”

Roslin waves a shaky hand in dismissal of this, “Pay it no heed. Important news came this morning on the wings of a raven and I would not have a messenger inform you of it."

A familiar chill rocks up Catelyn’s spine. She has lived this moment before, too many times over. She can feel herself beginning to shiver. _Do not think of it_.

“News?” she repeats and it is a blessing that her voice remains level. Roslin nods, and Eiblynn stirs against her neck. Catelyn clutches at the skirt of her nightgown. She really ought to have dressed.

“What news, my lady?” she asks in a low voice. She wonders who it is this time, what dark words scrawled on a careless note have come to pull her world apart yet again. Blackness flecks at the edges of her gaze. Her head is throbbing.

“It is word from Winterfell, Lady Catelyn,” Roslin says, “The rightful Warden of the North has returned and now calls his family home.”

The words seem wrong. They do not quite make sense in Catelyn’s mind. She raises her head, stares at her goodsister. Roslin is bright-eyed, her rose-pink lips beginning to tilt into a timid smile.

“Say that again,” Catelyn says, all propriety forgotten. Roslin giggles, a nervous flutter of a sound, but obliges.

“The Lord of Winterfell is returned, Lady Stark.”

“Ned’s alive?”

That is all that Catelyn understands and yet all that she cannot believe. They felt too sweet on her tongue, too good to be true—that her husband could have survived King’s Landing, the Lannisters, the Cells—could it?

“It is true, Catelyn,” Roslin is smiling with abandon now, and even dares to perch on the seat next to Catelyn, “Lord Stark is alive. He’s in Winterfell right now, with your youngest son. He wants to see you again. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

Catelyn’s hands are still clenched in her skirts. She releases them, uncurls her fingers, and lets them ache in being readjusted. She thinks of Ned, her Ned—how long had it been? How long since she kissed him, saw him? How long since she had thought him dead, resigned herself to a life of mourning, a life without him? After so long, so much, he had come back to her.

Catelyn felt warm, all of a sudden—the sort of warm she had not felt in a long while.


	3. The Singing of Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it has been...a long time since i updated this.
> 
> i am so, _so_ sorry.
> 
> i let real life catch up with me but, with the beginning of the new season, i felt re-inspired to return to these characters and i'm actually feeling pretty buzzed about all this! if you're just tuning in/still reading, thank you so much. i really hope you enjoy :)

The morning on which Sansa will leave the Vale dawns bright and cold, and rings with the trilling of birds.

Sansa is already wide awake when the sun comes up, a white disc rising sluggishly behind the mist. Her chamber window faces east and she watches the snow on the mountains begin to twinkle, begin to glow, begin to shine in the weak light. The air chills, and gooseflesh prickles her arms, but Sansa has never felt so at peace. She catches herself humming along to the birdsong, although it is distant, and wants to laugh. Laughter has never felt so good.

Sansa had dreamt of birds the night before—not of cages, of polished steel bars and stifling heat and singing until her throat ached and cracked, but of flying.

And how _high_ she had flown! She had soared above the turrets of the Gates of the Moon, up beyond the Eyrie, over the top-most peak of the Giant’s Lance. Below rivers had seemed like silver sewing thread, hills and forest a quilt of green, the mountains’ points clumsy nubs of white and grey. Sansa had sped eagerly westwards, for, though the Vale was beautiful, there was only one place she wished to see.

The green had slowly thinned to sparse browns and blacks, and turned to pure white as she flew further north, but Sansa did not see ruin or ugliness. The icy winds cooled the flurry of her wings; every breath was cleaner and deeper; and as the rooftops of Winterfell, _her_ Winterfell, rose up in the distance, Sansa felt nearly weightless. She twirled and plunged and fluttered, but never felt dizzy. She was alive. She was _free_.

Now Sansa leans her head on her arms, crosses on her windowsill, and peers out at the mountains, and remembers what it is to fly. _I will fly again soon, through the Gates and out of the Vale, and I will be home_.

A knock at her door startles her out of her reverie, and Sansa looks around just as it swings open and a maid shuffles in, smiling shyly.

“Is my bath prepared?” Sansa asks, and the maid nods once.

“Would you care for it now, milady?” she says in a small, thick voice. Sansa’s heart leaps, although she knows it is foolish to be so excited. As she follows the maid, she reaches up to pull her hair out of its knot, and it sweeps twisted over her shoulder, a murky colour still more brown than red. The last of the dye would come out this time, Sansa thinks, and when she left she would be Sansa Stark once more.

_I have always been Sansa Stark._

The water in the tub is steaming when Sansa arrives. The maid steps forward to dip her elbow into the water, testing, before edging back and turning away from Sansa. Although she cannot see, Sansa beams gratefully at the back of her head before tugging her shift over her head. She does not care to undress in front of people, not even maids, and she hates to have to ask for such a silly, petulant thing as not looking at her. She will see her sixteenth nameday soon, and still yearns to hide like a child.

_I am Sansa Stark, and I am a lady._

Sansa slides gingerly into bath, resisting the urge to jerk her leg out again when she feels how hot the water is. Slowly, she sits down, stretching her legs out before her and settling back. She does not mind the heat, not really. She just is not used to it anymore. Winter is here now. She wonders if the new-built walls of Winterfell is still heated by the springs. It will be warm there, and cosy. Sansa was too young to remember the end of the last winter, but she knows that no place is better to weather the cold than Winterfell.

“Have there been any ravens this morning?” she asks anxiously as the maid comes near and kneels by the tub, “Any from the north?”

“None, Lady Stark,” the maid replies. Her eyes do not quite meet Sansa’s own, but Sansa is used to this now. Everybody at the Gates of the Moon—not just the servants, but Lord Royce as well—was startled when they discovered who she truly was, and now do not quite know how to treat her after moons of thinking her a simple bastard girl. As the fighting to both the north and south worsened, Lord Baelish and his natural daughter had stood strong, and Petyr’s plans had slowly begun to come together. It was all to be foiled, however, by the discovery of a living child on Skagos. The word that Rickon Stark was alive had taken all by surprise, but none more bitterly than Petyr Baelish and none more so than Alayne Stone.

Her claim to Winterfell might have been gone but she had a brother again. She had _family_ again.

Petyr tried to keep his plans on course, as he had to. But Alayne had begun to waver. Alayne was starting to break. Under the broken fragments of her image, Sansa barely dared to peep out, frightened and fragile as a newborn bird.

The day that Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons were first spotted on the horizon, Sansa Stark found her courage.

And now she will go home and be rid of servants who fear her and handle her like glass, and lords who stumble and stammer and call her ‘Lady Stark’, and the ghosts that haunt her steps at every corner in this castle. Peace reigns again in the Seven Kingdoms, though it is hard-won and delicate, and she can be Sansa Stark again. It is safe to, now.

The maid guides Sansa’s head back and gently begins to wet and soap it. Her nails scrape against Sansa’s scalp pleasantly, and she recalls a time a hundred years ago when her mother would brush her hair until it shone. The water swilling around Sansa slowly clouds with grime and brown dye. It takes more time, more water, and more furious rinsing, but when Sansa emerges from her chambers later that morning, dressed in a gown of white and grey, her hair gleams auburn.

* * *

 

For days after Lord Eddard Stark’s return to Winterfell, the rookery is infested with ravens. With them come letters from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

The first morning that he returns to his duties, Ned is stunned to come into his solar to find a stack of papers on his desk, all yellowed and blotched with the stains of travel and all bearing one grand sigil or another. The maester can only shrug helplessly and offer to assist his reading. He is a man untested yet, his chain still short about his neck, but he is kind and quiet enough that Ned does not mind his presence. Nonetheless, he directs the maester out of his solar this day. A lord must see to his castle’s every need; how can Ned be a lord again if he cannot read his own letters?

Rickon blanches at the concept of a morning cooped up inside, and Ned reluctantly bids Osha to take him and Shaggydog outside. He has been at Winterfell for less than a moon’s turn, and rarely since he first arrived has Ned been without his youngest son. Rickon takes his meals with him, follows him to see the steward, guides him about the grounds with Shaggydog always trotting behind them. He has even taken to sleeping in Ned’s chambers—at first on the rug, curled up with Shaggydog, but at Ned’s insistence a mattress was brought into the room and Rickon accepted it begrudgingly. According to his servants, this is the most cooperative Rickon has been in months.

A part of Ned selfishly enjoys the attachment Rickon feels for him. It has been too long since he felt like somebody loved him, and he knows that Rickon and his wolf dogging his heels is a show of love.

Ned loves his boy too, with a strength and warmth that is no longer familiar to him. It is why he insists Rickon eat more than the meat at his meals, why he called for a mattress to be sent to his chambers, why he sends Rickon away when he visits the maester to have the dressings on his leg changed. It is why he now sits alone in his solar without his son’s absent chatter and the heat of Shaggydog sprawled at his feet. A father must do more than love and protect. He must guide Rickon in the ways of the world before he becomes a man grown.

He almost missed his chance once. He will not make the same mistake again.

Nearly all of the letters express the same sentiment. Lady Alysane Mormont welcomes the rightful Lord of Winterfell home with delight. Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden hopes for goodwill and unity between their Houses now that peace reigns and the land may prosper again. House Baratheon of King’s Landing sends an official decree reinstating Ned as Warden of the North, as well as a small note from Shireen Baratheon herself requesting to know if Ned made it safely home. Ned smiles to see that. _A sad and lonely little girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, yet she has not lost her sweetness._

One letter is sealed with red ink, pressed into the shape of a roaring lion. Ned sets it aside for the time being. As he picks up the next letter, he tries to ignore his shaking hands.

The pile is near finished when the maester bursts into the solar, slamming open the door with a crack that near makes Ned jump out of his skin. The maester only then seems to realize his mistake, and promptly flushes.

“A-apologies, Lord Stark,” he says quickly, but then presses further into the room, brandishing another letter like a sword, “But this, this just arrived—”

“Put it on my desk and leave,” Ned snaps. The maester’s sudden intrusion has only frayed his nerves more, and his hands will not stop trembling, and all he can think is _out, out, out_. “I will get to it when—”

“My lord, the sigil is of House Tully.”

Ned freezes. His hands fall still against the tabletop.

“And your orders,” the maester continues, though his voice begins to falter, “were that…a-any correspondence from Lord Tully s-should—”

Ned forces himself to swallow before he speaks, and tries to maintain a level tone. “Give it to me, please.”

Warily, the master slides the letter into Ned’s outstretched hand. The sigil is dark blue, a leaping trout against a paper sea, and it breaks easily as Ned slips a thumb underneath it. It is only one page, filled with tight black scrawl, and Ned’s eyes feast upon the tidings written there.

_‘Lord Stark,_

_On behalf of the Riverlands, House Tully would express to you the relief and joy felt to hear of the rightful Warden of the North’s release and return to Winterfell. House Tully was steadfast in its dedication to the northern cause throughout the War of the Five Kings and the War at the Wall, and we dearly hope to continue to ally ourselves with House Stark through the bonds of love and family._

_It is of these bonds that I write to you today. I write to you because we are brothers by marriage, Lord Stark, and your children are of my blood as well. It is my duty and honour to inform you that I have successfully retrieved both my sister, Catelyn of Houses Stark and Tully, and her son, Robb of House Stark, from the custodies of the former Houses of Bolton and Frey respectively. Catelyn and Robb Stark are alive, and have been recovering from their ordeals as prisoners of war at Riverrun._

_This morning, upon receiving word of your return to Winterfell, I took it upon myself immediately to write to you and to organize a party to take my wards north. By the time this raven reaches your castle, your wife and son shall be far from Riverrun via the kingsroad. Lord Stark, your family is coming home. I pray to the gods that the horses bearing them hence are swift and strong._

_Lord Edmure of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and Liege Lord of the Riverlands.’_

The signature Ned can barely make out for the blurring of his vision. His eyes itch horribly, and he lifts one hand as soon as he finishes reading to scrub them with the back of his sleeve. Before the desk, the maester hovers, face pinched with uncertainty. He is waiting for a command, Ned thinks dimly, but he cannot think of what to tell him. His throat is aching too, and he does not trust his voice yet.

_They’re alive._

_They’re alive, they’re alive, they’re alive._

“My lord?” the maester ventures when the silence has stretched on too long, “What would you have me do, my lord?”

Ned swallows down the lump in his throat. _Come on, man. Winter has come and you must be strong._ He is Eddard Stark. He has a duty. He has a family.

“Inform the steward that my lady wife and son ride for Winterfell and will arrive within weeks,” he says hoarsely, “Preparations must be made. I would also have an escort be sent to meet them as soon as a party can be put together.”

For a moment, the maester simply blinks at him, mouth hanging slightly open. Then—before Ned can recall his name and recapture his attention—he springs into action.

“My lord—yes, my lord!” he chirps, before striding for the door and whipping down the corridor. As soon as he is out of sight, Ned flattens his hands against the desktop and takes a deep breath.

_Alive, alive, alive_ , he thinks again, a heartbeat inside his head. It has been too long since he has felt so hopeful, and he is near giddy from it.

A reply to Edmure Tully will have to wait. Ned stands and, for once, his leg does not throb in protest. He must head out into the yard, and find Osha and Rickon. He must tell his son that his mother is coming home.

* * *

 

The shipyard is quiet.

The night sky is clear, save for the dots of stars and the moon hanging heavy and white far above the black veil of the sea. Lit only by that and a row of dangling lanterns spreading pools of orange, the dock is still. Not so much as a shadow stirs it. The city behind it is silent too, for even Braavos must sleep.

The morning before, the port had been bustling. Beyond the usual array of strange faces and trades, a Westerosi ship had been anchored for nearly a month. On the morrow, it will set sail again for Westeros, for Gulltown. All day, its crew had been ferrying wears back and forth, preparing for their voyage. Its captain had had a difficult day overseeing this, weaving between the traders still selling and the crowds on the dock, and keeping an eye on his errant crewmates.

“I won’t miss the Free Cities, that’s for sure,” he had grumbled to his first mate over a keg of ale in a nearby public house, “Might miss the whores, mind, but I won’t miss this place. Thinkin’ of retiring, even, over in Westeros—someplace nice. War’s over now, so it’ll be cheap and easy. Some girl is on the throne, mind, but better that than those Lannister bastards or that shit from the north, eh?”

His first mate had scoffed and taken a pull of beer, “I’d’a thought everyone over there were dead by now.”

“Nah. In fact, people we thought were dead are coming back to life, even,” said the captain, and called for more ale. It was a tiny scrap in a too-big dress that crept forward to refill his tankard, and her matted hair fell over her face as she poured. The captain waved her off again and leant forward, hand clasped around his tankard. “Rumour of _dragons_ , for a while, though the Others took them and they took the Others by all accounts. And King Robert’s Hand is back in the north. Ned Stark, the wolf the lions tried to skin. Harder to kill than roaches, are northmen. Mind, Stark’s meant to be an honorable sort. Might relocate there, find a ship to White Harbour, get some good business, lovely.”

“It’s gonna be fuckin’ cold up there, mate.”

“Well, winter can’t last forever, can it?”

After, he and his first mate had ventured back out onto the docks, just as the sun began to set and the sky bled purple. Most of his crew had dispersed by now for a last night enjoying Braavos—save a handful of men and the cabin boy, his cap pulled low over his face. The captain tweaked this as he passed.

“Alright, lads, bugger off with the rest of ‘em,” he shouted over the din, “We’ve all got girls we’d rather be seeing than each other’s ugly mugs. At dawn, you all best be back here! We sail for Gulltown on the morrow.”

And so, the docks are left deserted for the night, disturbed by not even a shadow—

—for only the cabin boy remains, cap pulled low over her borrowed face.


End file.
